Mate (Bride, #2) (42)
Carter and I burst out laughing, then stop when we notice Koen’s narrow-eyed stare.
“Absolutely,” Carter says, recovering faster. “It’s a valid narrative choice. The scruff, I mean.” He scans Koen like he’s a vision board. “The story I’m picking up is that you are resourceful enough to survive forty days and forty nights in the desert by sucking the moisture out of a prickly pear.
If it isn’t what you’re going for— only if it isn’t, may I recommend a haircut and a shave?”
“Don’t criticize my looks. It hurts my feelings.”
“Your what?” I ask.
Koen gives me a deadpan look.
“We just want what’s best for you,” I explain.
Carter nods. “And what’s best for us. The Alpha is the face of the pack.
And right now, we’re looking pretty . . .”
“Disheveled,” I finish.
“We are wolves,” Koen retorts. “We eat our prey alive. We shove our noses up each other’s junk. We roll in shit to mask our scents.”
“Point taken,” Carter concedes. “Although some would argue that no wolf has ever stooped so low as to walk around with an unkempt and obviously unpremeditated topknot— ”
“Carter,” Koen growls. “Get Serena something to put on right now, or I’ll topknot your intestines.”
“On it, Alpha.” Carter bends his head, once, deep, and escorts me to the back of the store. “Koen said you need a bit of everything?”
It’s not quite true, since I have no plans to venture away from the cabin or to interact with anyone who’d judge me for spending my life in a bathrobe. “I don’t foresee many cocktail parties in my near future, and I don’t know that this is the best time for me to take up scuba diving. Just the basics?”
“Perfect.”
So, jeans. Sweats. Thermal shirts, sweaters, a heavy jacket. Carter’s store is great, and I don’t want to impose any more than I already am, so I agree to whatever he has me trying on, even though my skin has been very sensitive for weeks, and the denim and wool scrape against it like emery boards. The texture of fleece makes me wish there were enough traffic for me to walk into. A normal evolution of your condition, said Dr. Henshaw.
Make sure you dress to minimize your sensory issues.
I used to be fastidious about my appearance. I spent a huge chunk of my first few paychecks on building a wardrobe, and I miss it— the professional
grays and beiges, blue hues, strategic little splashes of color. My power blouses, Misery called them. Power slacks, power blazers, power turtlenecks. That’s exactly what they were: me, asserting the little power I had scrounged for myself. After years of hand-me- downs and uniforms that never fit my ever-changing teenage body, I used to take a lot of pride in looking the way I chose. Learning how to dress, how to style my hair, how to do makeup felt like a radical act of agency. Joyful and fun. Liberating.
Finding myself.
But the sallow, emaciated girl blinking at me in the changing room mirror is no one at all. Her dark hair hangs limply from a middle part, far too long. Her collarbones are sharper than knives. Her identity has been peeled off layer by layer.
“Everything okay?” Carter asks from beyond the curtain. “Does the jacket look nice?”
It looks like shit, because I look like shit. I guess I saw myself as the kind of person who’d hold on to her dignity in the face of great hardship.
Apparently, I’m just a damn slob— and the thought has me snorting out laughter. “Great. Love it!”
The process takes about twenty minutes. Koen stays out of the way, leaning back against the glass door like the world’s most obstructing bouncer, never taking his eyes off us. He answers his phone a couple of times, has a few low-pitched conversations that could probably be marketed as “highly soothing white noise” and sold for eye-watering profit. I smile at him whenever our eyes meet.
He doesn’t respond.
“Koen,” Carter calls, tossing a plastic package at him. “Will you grab some more of this for her?” It’s underwear. Koen Alexander is choosing and paying for my panties. The situation is so ludicrous, I can’t quite bite back a hysterical chuckle.
Before we walk out with half a dozen bags, Carter whispers in my ear to please “do something about the facial hair situation,” and Koen flips him off without bothering to turn around. In the car, though, I realize that we didn’t stop at the register. “Hang on. Are you guys some kind of currency-less postcapitalist utopia?”
Koen blinks. “What?”
“You didn’t pay. Is it some kind of Alpha feudal right?”
His eyebrow lifts. “You think they don’t know where to send their bills?”
The next stop is the department store, where Weres obtain their food when they’re not in the mood for marmot kebabs. “Must be where the Northwest purchases unicorn waffles,” I muse, which earns me an ear flick.
This place is much more crowded. Most of the Weres in the parking area are in human form, getting out of cars with their families or loading groceries into their trunks. A couple walks by the edge of the lot, holding hands, fully naked despite the chilly breeze, and disappears past the trees.
“We’ll get you food. And other shit you need.”